


Murky Waters

by accio_arse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Hidden Cameras, John is straight (mostly), Kissing, M/M, Massage, Mycroft is gay, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Romance, Slash, Tea, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-27
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-30 04:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accio_arse/pseuds/accio_arse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach Mycroft/John. </p>
<p>Mycroft, for reasons of his own, arranges for John to have a personal treatment when his limp returns. Eventually, their meetings evolve into something unexpected for both of them. </p>
<p>(Mature in future chapters)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I'm not gay.”

“Yes, I know you're not.”

“If that's what this is all about.”

Mycroft shook his head. 

“Well.” John drummed his fingers on the café tabletop. “What else is it, then?”

“John, John. I've heard you declare your position, several times. Quite emphatically. Once even, if I remember, in a rather grubby disused power station. Let's have no more about it.”

“Heard me declare – hold on,” John said. “Oh. Of course. That nasty habit of yours. Big Brother is watching.” 

Mycroft stirred his tea but didn't drink it. The liquid had been dubiously murky, even before he'd added milk. “Exactly.” 

John looked out the window. He slumped.

“Really, John. Am I – is this such a chore?” 

John's hair had more grey in it nowadays, since Sherlock had gone. His cane fell to the floor, and clattered. As he leant sideways, he rested his head sadly against the large plate glass window. It left a halo of breath in his wake. 

Mycroft might have been mistaken, but he thought he heard, “I'll never forgive you,” against the pane. It wasn't clear to whom John was speaking.

Mycroft sniffed his tea. “I suppose that's the best we can hope for, given the circumstances.” 

John turned around and looked at him with genuine disgust. “We can hope? We? Was that a royal we?” 

“If you like,” Mycroft said and attempted his tea with a sigh.

*

The black car with tinted windows showed up a few days later while John was walking home. It was almost routine nowadays. John barely complained as he let himself be taken, this time to an address in Mayfair. 

Mycroft was in one of the downstairs rooms, neat as a pin in his three-piece suit.

“Come now, John. Up onto the bed with you.”

John eyed the set-up with suspicion.

“Is the room not heated to your liking? It's quite safe here, I assure you. Would you like music? Something to drink? A pillow?”

“No, it's not that.”

“Well, then. Strip down to whatever feels comfortable and we'll begin.”

John made no move to comply. Instead, he walked around the equipment with its white wipe-down faux-leather surfaces and strategic holes in which to place bodily parts. Tall Anja waited patiently to the side with a selection of oils and towels. What looked like metal scraping devices sat in a metal rack on the floor, dental torture devices writ large.

“Anja is fully qualified,” Mycroft said. “Both in her native Slovenia and here in Britain. Would you like to see her certificates?”

“Yes, please.”

John studied the stiff sheets of paper. All seemed in order, as far as he could tell. Although it was not like she practised the most scientific profession there ever had been.

“She's quite skilled, I assure you,” Mycroft said smoothly.

John took off his jacket and laid down his walking stick. “Okay, then. As long as it doesn't kill more than it cures. What I have got to lose?”

Mycroft smiled, a vaguely threatening occurrence as this displayed his small, glittering teeth. “I'm so glad, John. I only mean to help.”

He watched as the other man took off his shirt and his shoes. 

John's hands were on his belt when he realised he was pulling up a chair. “Are you just going to sit there and watch?”

“I thought we could talk like this. You'll be more relaxed. No?” It was alarming how quickly the disappointment flashed on Mycroft's face.

“No,” said John. “Get out.”

Mycroft bowed, a strange formal motion, at odds with his sour expression. 

“Of course. As you wish.”

His back was stiff as turned the handle on the door. Suddenly, his features brightened and his eyes flicked to a corner. 

John cursed silently. Of course. More fucking cameras.

The door clicked. Mycroft was gone.

“Got an extra towel?” John asked tall Anja, who was statuesque and blonde, and really looked like she could crack almonds in her eyelids, Brazils in her nostrils, and a whole forest of mixed nuts in her thighs.

John covered the bracketed hardware. “Right, let's have you, Peeping Tom.” Then he stripped down to his birthday suit with a laugh.

Twenty seconds later, Mycroft interlaced his fingers in front of his glowing open laptop and made sure all feeds were recording. Ah, yes. Well, HD Camera One was out of action, as he'd planned for, but numbers Two, Three and Four were more than adequate. 

Indeed.

*

“I ask you to look out for John, and this is how you do it? By secretly filming him naked, and regularly abducting him into one of your safe houses?”

That was the type of thing a normal brother would say, he supposed. But Sherlock never had been that.

As a careful older sibling, he had watched a teenage Sherlock try out his painful flirtation with normality. It didn't last long, how could it? Standing from the sidelines on a weekend visit, Mycroft saw his brother ape his new friends at college. Faking their laughs and trivialities, their jumbled emotions. He could have told him to save his efforts. Sherlock never stood a chance. 

Neither of them had. Earlier, his own attempt at passing had been longer lasting, if not any less painful.

Back when he was growing up, anything other than the most straight and narrow tendencies was enough to set you beyond the pale on its own. Nowadays, he supposed being gay was almost trendy and cool, or whatever the young people called it.

Not that that things were ever quite so simple.

*

A post-massage John was much more pliant and suggestible than a pre-massage one. On the third occasion of his hardly-abduction-at-all to the Mayfair house, John was happily taking tea afterwards with Mycroft and even almost smiling.

Mycroft was also in a pleasant mood. The quality of tea was far better now it was under his control. He had just enjoyed a non-interrupted viewing of John Watson, from many angles, and now even better, the man himself was only a small distance from him across a table, and showed no inclination to leave. 

He knew it was probably not a good idea to indulge in this – this thing. But he knew just as much that he was not going to give it up. 

Why now? Was it because what he'd promised Sherlock? Perverse. 

Still, Mycroft couldn't deny it. He felt it high on his face, singing across his cheeks. Every time with John, he felt more alive. 

“Oh bloody god,” said the object of his affections. “You were not kidding, were you. She is a miracle. A bloody marvel.”

Mycroft took a delighted sip of tea. 

“Not just my leg. My shoulder, everywhere. It's like I have no muscles left. I'm walking on air afterwards. The whole day after, like I'm on a cloud.”

“I'm so pleased.” Mycroft actually was. These days, he wanted nothing more than a happy John. “I only want to take care of you.” Oh dear. Was that too much? Out loud, almost as good as an admission.

John laughed a dirty laugh. “Yeah. I bet you do. You want to 'take care' of me, do you?” He laughed again, enough like Sid James that it should have set alarm bells ringing. “Hey, don't worry, I'm right now where I don't even care. Go ahead, knock yourself out. Yeah. I found your other camera.” 

Mycroft froze. His teacup perched on his lower lip.

“You know? The camera in the shelf, your fake book, pointed right at the bed? Could you be any more obvious? But go ahead. Hey, wank yourself stupid.”

Mycroft placed his teacup slowly back in its saucer. There was only minimal shake, he was pleased to note. 

“There may be security cameras in your room, John. But I assure you, that is standard procedure for a house of this kind. There is certainly nothing untoward. Whatever you seem to imply, this is not a government-sanctioned hotbed of onanism.”

Not entirely technically true. But essentially in its facts. Of long experience, Mycroft no matter how safe the house, and no matter how long the incarceration, had made it policy never to 'wank' in the premises. He released only in the safety of home. A couple of hours with provocation, even from the astounding John Watson, was nothing. Mycroft had withstood months of safe house time.

John popped a biscuit in his mouth. He noted Mycroft's shaking hands and other tell-tales. Amused, his eyebrows danced. 

“Let's see,” he began - and Mycroft cursed his brother and his horrid influence - “You've that red flush across your neck and trailing underneath your collar. Your waistcoat is buttoned up as usual, but has recently become creased. Your hair is different to when we first arrived. All pointing to a sneaky one off the cuff at some point in the last hour.”

“I just took a shower upstairs,” Mycroft informed him. “I have particularly fair skin. This suit is due for the cleaner. Really, must I account to you, John, for all my actions?”

“You took a shower?” John was disbelieving. “Here? In the middle of the day?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft. A cold shower, each time with John. Obviously. After viewing the first 45 minutes of John's feed but before Anja had finished, to give Mycroft time to recover and to tamp down the most obvious of his reactions.

“Oh,” said John. He snagged another biscuit and fake-sighed. “Guess I'm not so attractive to you after all. What a blow. Okay, then. I'm sorry. I got it completely wrong.” He shook his head. “Can you blame me? You're so cloak and dagger it's unreal. Then you get me naked and turn the cameras on and really - do you know what? This is crazy, really crazy, but for a moment I thought you were into it – and I was actually going to make you an offer.”

Mycroft's mouth went dry. He might have started shaking. “Y-you were? What kind of an offer?”

“Oh. Not much. Just to take the towel off the big camera in future, if you turned out to be into it.” John's face ha d gone dangerously innocent. 

This was the time to say something, thought Mycroft furiously. Anything.

“But – hey, since you're not. And the cameras are just for routine security purposes and I was way off the mark, no need. You're probably not even gay, for all I know. Definitely not knocking one out over a knackered old soldier like me. I mean, who would?”

John did not seem that upset either way. He poured himself more tea. “You know who is gay, though? Want to know?”

Mycroft hardly dared hope. “Who?”

John leant forward. “Try and guess.”

Mycroft tried to remember about flirting. Because John must surely be flirting with him now, mustn't he? Otherwise what was this all in aid of? The proximity, his eyes, the licking of the lips?

Flirting had to do with being unthreatening, he remembered. Something he never had excelled at. Mycroft pressed his lips into the memory of a winsome smile and leaned in. 

“Christ! Mycroft! Are you in pain or something?”

Mycroft quickly stopped his attempt and sat back up again. “No, no.”

“You sure?” 

“No, no. Go on, John. Please continue.” Mycroft didn't dare another smile.

“Okay. Where was I?”

“Someone was – gay?” Mycroft said, the word sticking to the end of his palate.

“Oh yes. Anja! She's gay.”

“Oh,” said Mycroft. Old news. Anja. “I see. And when did you ask her out?” Of course. It must have been while he was busy in the shower.

“First time she gave me a massage. Right at the end.”

“Ah.”

“She's so good. You have no idea. I almost thought I was in love.”

“It doesn't take an hour of bliss to make you ask out a woman, John Watson. You'll do that after five seconds of boredom. So. Still not gay, I take it. Not yet, anyway.”

His amused reaction left Mycroft in little doubt. As if there had been.

Well, it wasn't the perfect moment. But it was one, of sorts.

He set his eyes firmly on John, daring him to take it badly. “But I am.”

John performed one of his astounding double takes, although Mycroft was pretty sure he knew and had for some time. 

“Okay. You know I have no problem with that.” John replied, looking into Mycroft's eyes and holding them steady, which was really terribly good of him. 

“I'm sure you don't, John.”

But there was something wrong. Their little moment was done, but John wasn't letting him look away. 

He nodded. “But I think you're saying something more here.” 

“Am I?” Mycroft asked, his heart beating fast.

“Okay, you're saying you're gay, and and perhaps also – that you and... me?” 

No, that wasn't what he'd meant at all. “John. But. You're straight.”

John drank his drank his tea. Then he put down the cup and folded his arms tight to his body. “Yes. But my offer's still -” He sank his head into his chest. “You know, the camera. I'll leave the towel off. If you want - God, I don't know what I'm doing. I think I'm still in happy world from Anja. Say something now. Mycroft?”

Mycroft didn't know what he was doing either. But he didn't want it to stop.

“That would be awfully good of you. Yes, John, the camera. Yes, please.”

*


	2. Chapter 2

*

As much as he would have liked to, Mycroft was not able to devote all his thoughts in the next three days solely to John Watson and their promised new arrangement.

On the contrary. Wednesday night, Mycroft hardly slept at all. The blasted time difference with Beijing meant he was up until five in the morning with conference calls. That led straight onto an early Thursday breakfast meeting with some polite but earnest German civil servants, whom he knew far better than to put off, even though their ostensible agenda was an EU tax on military bootlaces. 

By Thursday evening, it was a weary man who sent the anonymous black car with tinted windows off for its regular assignment.

Back in the front room of the safe house, he opened up his laptop. The window blinds cast creamy shadows from the dipping sun as he skimmed through defence budget projections, tired eyes darting for loopholes. 

There was still a good ten minutes before Anja was to start on John. The massage area's cameras were set up and tested. 

He was therefore unprepared for the man that burst into his room. 

“John?” 

He was in no better shape than Mycroft himself. Grey circles under his eyes. Frown lines that had seen repeated and recent use. 

“Just – no more of this, Mycroft. No more of your stupid games.”

Mycroft closed his laptop quickly. “What's wrong?”

John paced back and forward. He came to rest facing a wall, his hands clasped behind his back, hardly at his ease despite his stance. “I can't believe you had me – last time – almost forgetting.” 

Mycroft observed the strained lines of John's neck, the clenching fingers.

“You sold him out.” John spun. “Your own brother. I can never - I don't know why I'm even here, why I got in the car - “

“Yes.”

John stopped. “Yes what?”

“I know why you got in, John.”

“Oh.” Sarcasm. “Because you know everything?”

“Yes. And I know this, John. Simply put – you came because you have had a difficult day, and you had nobody else to take it out on. Someone who understands, but whom you still care relatively little for and don't mind if you hurt.”

“You – you -” John boiled.

Mycroft folded his hands on his lap and waited.

“You know what?” John shouted. “You're right. Okay, I'd like to take out my bad day on you.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow, a layered and perhaps dangerous sign.

“But you know what else? This stops, right here. No more making little films of me, or whatever it is you do up in your little control tower. You don't get to perve over me any more.”

“I see.”

“I see? What does that mean - you see?” John strode up and looked Mycroft up and down. “Yeah. I thought so. It doesn't mean anything, does it? You're just going to keep on doing – whatever. With or without my say so, right?” He leaned over Mycroft. “I don't know why I ever thought I had a choice.”

“That most emphatically is not true.” Mycroft turned round. There was a small button affixed to the wall. “Would you like a cup of tea? I can easily ring for some.”

“No. I don't want you or your fucking tea.”

“Well, then take a seat. Shout at me in at least some comfort.”

“I don't want to sit! I've been sitting in surgery all day – oh!” John suddenly slouched, as if the strings holding him up had been cut. He grabbed the back of a nearby chair. “There was a patient. Today. I saw him in surgery.”

“And?” Mycroft made inquiry with his fingers. 

“Just some City worker, all suited up. Bit of a tosser. The usual. Presenting with a stye. But he walked through my door, and for a moment -”

“Tall and undernourished? Unnaturally tight jacket and shirt? Badly cut dark hair?” 

John made eye contact. He nodded. 

“And it hurts,” Mycroft added.

“What the -” John screwed up his face. “Is this bleeding 'state the obvious' time? Don't patronise me. You haven't earned that right.”

Mycroft's smile and sympathy fled as fast as it had appeared. 

“All this,” John gestured, palms wide. “Whatever you think you have going. Your little schemes for me. Aftercare, whatever. It doesn't change a thing.”

“Believe me, John. If there had been - “

“No.” John stood up straight. “Shut up. I don't want to hear it.” 

Mycroft pursed his mouth, as if remembering their earlier meetings in the café, and the unpleasant tea.

“Is Anja ready?” 

There came a curt nod from Mycroft in reply. 

“Good,” John said. “So whatever you're going to do, with your cameras and your weirdness – I can't stop you, can I? So, go on. Let's get it over and done with.” 

He met Mycroft's eyes and held them deliberately. Then he stiffened his back and left the room.

*

As soon as the other man was gone, Mycroft rang for an operative, instructed her, and sent her on her way.

It was the work of a moment more to record data to a memory stick, delete the original on both the hard drive and backup, take out a sheet of heavy grade writing paper, compose a note, fold it several times and place both items in an envelope. 

He decided it would be better to see to the next step personally. Crossing the hallway, he knocked on a door, stood to one side so as to be obscured from the room's other occupants and handed the envelope through the slight gap.

Then he returned to the front room, where sunset was turning the walls golden.

Inside the massage room, John had already undressed, although a few minutes ago Anja had decided nudity was no longer appropriate. John was now in a virgin white spa robe and and nothing else as an attractive young woman in a pinstriped skirt suit bent over with a spanner in front of him.

John crossed his arms. “So how many of these things are there?” 

Of course, there had been more. John recalled his self-congratulation at finding the first of them. How naïve he had been. 

“Five in total, Sir. My orders are to remove them all.”

The woman had already uncovered three from various locations and placed them in her heavy canvas bag. John watched her with his rage only half-concealed.

“How do I know there's only five, then? Why not five hundred?” 

The woman considered this seriously. “There's only five devices allocated as far as I'm aware,” she replied. “It's not a large room. I doubt five hundred of a similar grade could be adequately placed. At least, not without major structural work.”

John was about to retort when there came a knock on the door. Anja went forward and took receipt of the plain envelope. The door closed immediately and softly.

“For you, Doctor Watson,” she said, a rich east European shadow on her vowels.

John read the letter inside, his anger mounting. He fished in the envelope, discovered the memory stick and flipped it over with his fingers. With a snort, he tapped its ends, then threw it in a small waste paper basket under one corner of a table.

“Your boss is a fucking liar, did you know?” he told the woman in the suit. He immediately added to Anja, “Sorry. Language.” 

Anja shrugged in her wide-shouldered way and smiled easily. John frowned back. At last he had to relent and smile reluctantly too. He couldn't be angry at Anja, not after the things she'd done to his body the last few weeks. Nobody could be bad, and do such tender good.

The woman in the suit had her head down and was still fiddling. John directed his fury to her shining and beautiful hair, her well-proportioned rear.

“Why do you work for him? You're an idiot if you ever trust anything that man says.”

Mycroft's note had finished with a personal entreaty, the only such touch at the end of a list of dry facts. _'John, please believe me. MH.'_

It made John crazy the more he thought about it. Even crazier that he was still here. The last few days, knowing that he had agreed to this - for Mycroft to watch him. That he'd actually had the stupidity to lose sleep over this thing. 

But it had been this way for a long time, hadn't it? Since he'd moved in with Sherlock. The weight of Mycroft's attention. When had he started to assume it would always be there?

Coming to a decision, John removed his robe. 

Anja gasped. “She is not finished. There may be still - “

“I don't care, Anja. I'm ready to go.” John climbed onto the couch, face down. His buttocks and back felt cold in the air.

On the floor, the suited woman was still engrossed in the fourth device. She finally removed it, got up, turned round, and as she caught sight of John, her eyes went wide. 

John had his face turned away so did not see the blush that enveloped the woman and which she dropped her face to hide. She stowed the device and kept staring into down into her bag.

“Sir, there's one more camera left. Uh - the high definition one. On the ceiling. D-do you want me to uh -”

John lazily moved his head towards her. Anja was making deep circles on his lower back. It already felt great.

“Oh, just leave it. I'll just get Anja to throw a towel over, like before. Yeah, you can go. Tell your boss you did good.”

“Yes, Sir.” The suited woman picked up her bag and left. As she went, she tripped over her feet and was only saved by grabbing the door handle on her way. Then her sleeve caught on the other side's handle and she had to juggle to remain upright. “Sorry!” she said, and crashed into a wall.

“Huh,” grunted Anja, after the door finally closed. “Some people in this house, very strange. Doctor Watson, I now going to bend your leg.”

“Uh,” John groaned and let her. He was folded as Anja's muscular will did its work. “Ah, she was okay. Only doing her job.”

As always, Anja in action was terrifying but amazing. She pulled John's toes out one by one. They became five unexpectedly long springs. 

Anja paused before beginning her pulverisation of John's calves. “I put towel on camera now?” 

“Nah,” John said. “Why bother?” There were doubtless a dozen more cameras hidden about, but that was not the real reason. He turned his head again so he stared into the wall. “Forget the towel. Leave it. S'okay.” 

“Whatever you say, Doctor Watson. I rotate leg now. You may feel alarm. No need to worry.”

John felt the heat of his decision shoot across in his face and round the back of his neck. He closed his eyes and willed the consequences away. He pushed his forehead hard into the firm edge of the couch.

Moments later, Anja moved onto the deep muscles on the back of his thighs. John sighed and was able to let all his thoughts go.

*


	3. Chapter 3

*

The sun had set decisively behind the tall frontage of estate agent's wet dreams that made up the Mayfair address before John reappeared.

Upstairs, dinner was ready and waiting – three variations of it, fact. Two of the usual suspects, plus a wild card. Even though Mycroft had been hungry for some time, he had been hoping that John would join him. Hence the courtesy of choice. 

But perhaps a companionable dinner with John was a wild stretch of expectation, given what had happened between them earlier. 

“Is she still here?” John banged through the door into Mycroft's room.

“Is who here?” Mycroft looked up. He had been almost nodding off behind his laptop. 

“The woman who came in– the one with the cameras.” John fiddled hesitantly with the door knob. 

He wore a white robe, the same one Anja had forced on him earlier. His feet were bare on the carpet. Behind him, his shadow fell into the hallway, thrown by the brighter lights of the largely bare drawing room. 

“I don't know what I was thinking I wanted to get started – you worked me up earlier, I don't know. Got me annoyed. I – I think I kind of flashed at her,” confessed John.

Mycroft put his laptop away. He activated its security system. “Ms Morgan? Oh, yes. I heard about that.”

“I really – I don't know why – Anyway. I - I think I need to go apologise.”

Mycroft got up. He scanned John - the wayward pulse at his throat, as if he'd just run a dozen metres at a dash. How his robe was deliberately and firmly belted in front of his body, double thickness. His leg hairs at improbable angles, caught by still-tacky massage oil, which was also smeared on the front of his robe. 

“Ah,” said Mycroft. “Sadly, not possible. Ms Morgan is long gone.”

John flushed. “Oh. I thought she might -”

“So you rushed over here to comfort the young lady. How chivalrous. Just in case the sight of your uncovered buttocks caused her to have a fainting fit.”

“No.” John grunted and turned away. “I'll go get dressed.”

“Wait.” Mycroft moved towards John and touched his arm. “And how is Anja treating you?”

“Don't you know?” John was angry. “Weren't you watching it as usual? Recording it all on all your little cameras?” 

“Of course not. You made your wishes on that quite clear. Oh -” Mycroft pressed his fingers into John's sleeve more warmly. “You didn't believe what I wrote.”

“You really think I would?” John's face rucked.

“Well, not without confirmation. Which is why I sent Ms Morgan to dismantle the equipment, although I assure you there was no need. Immediately you informed me of your preference, I killed the feed.” Mycroft paused and averted his eyes. “I heard you asked Ms Morgan to leave the last camera up. Was that - for any particular reason?”

John frowned. Mycroft was holding onto his arm, and the two of them were very close. The air seemed to have gone thick. John twitched his eyebrows and leaned closer to Mycroft still.

Mycroft's tie was burgundy today. It had small diamond patterns on it and smelled good.

“Anyway,” Mycroft summarised. “It makes no difference. You used a towel to cover the lens. Even if the feed had been on, you knew the camera was out of action.”

“No,” John admitted, breathing deeply. “I didn't.”

“Well, you didn't do it yourself. You instructed Anja.” Mycroft shrugged. “With the same result.”

His hand released. John found he did not move. His lungs were sparking every time he breathed in. He took in a long pull to the sides of them and found it comforting. His muscles had gone weak. Instead of unpleasant, it felt safe.

“No,” he said, briefly. 

“No, what?”

John's reply caught in his throat. “I told Anja – the camera was okay. To leave it clear.”

Mycroft bent his head. He worried his lips together so they flattened pale. John watched those lips. He tilted his nose as Mycroft drew down.

Neither of them blinked. 

Then Mycroft's gaze flicked down further, to the front of John's robe. John flinched with shame. He pulled back, and tugged the thick fabric more securely to cover him.

Mycroft let John go. He observed him closely. “I hope I answered all your questions about Ms Morgan.”

“Yes. Yes.” John retreated across the room, twisting so his hips faced away.

“I mentioned that this building does have a shower room. You may use it, if you wish.”

“No,” said John. “I mean, I -”

“On the second floor. First on the left.”

John felt for the door handle blindly with the back of his hand. “Okay. Yes. Perhaps I will.”

He was about to escape when Mycroft said, “And John?”

John fixed his eyes on a spot to the left of Mycroft. 

“You missed lunch today. You really need to take more care of yourself.”

John was startled into looking at the other man. “Uh I didn't have time for more than – surgery was packed -” His face slotted into realisation. “Of course. Don't tell me. You've got cameras at the surgery too.”

“John, John. I keep telling you. I genuinely have no need. No, I do not have cameras fixed there. Please believe me. I really only want to care for you.”

*

A few minutes later Mycroft was alone, regretting his last words and biting down hard on the side of his fist, willing away his arousal. 

A knock at the door forced him to take slow breaths and to smooth down his suit.

“Enter,” he ordered, after a while.

A young man with a retreating chin and a Scottish accent reported the intruder. Mycroft strode immediately out into the hallway, picking up a silver suitcase on his way.

Outside in the final traces of sunset, Mycroft's blacked-out government car was waiting. A few blinking orange streetlights were straggling to turn on, reflected as warped echoes in its windows. 

Mycroft's driver was by the front tyre, standing and shifting from foot to foot. When he saw Mycroft, he snapped guiltily to attention.

“I'm sorry, sir. He just suddenly -”

“No need to worry,” said Mycroft. “If it hadn't have been now, it would only have been later.” With a snap, he opened one of the back doors and pushed in the suitcase. He followed, bending his long legs stiffly. “And how are you keeping, little brother?”

“Oh god. So bored.”

“Good,” said Mycroft. “Always glad to hear that.”

Sherlock was sprawled across the back seats of the limo, limbs slithering out of his coat, a floppy dark-haired mass of nerves. “I'm going to go crazy,” he informed his brother. “Nothing to do. Even breaking into your car before your driver noticed was dull work. Dull, duh-ull.”

“Well, indeed. My driver is only trained by MI5. Not even a mild diversion for you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He strummed his fingers on the interior's walnut trim and scuffed his heels on the bulletproof partition. “If I'd known it was going to be this tedious I never would have bothered. Hurry up, Mycroft. Get a move on so it can all be over.”

“What? I haven't yet enjoyed nearly enough of your charming small talk.”

“Yes, you have,” said Sherlock, decidedly. “Where's my passport?” 

Mycroft sighed, but still handed over the silver suitcase. He watched Sherlock dive in.

Sherlock leafed through the packing and found the red-covered booklet. “Wayne Tedward Froggit? You can't be serious.” He dug further. “No. These supplies are wholly inadequate.”

Mycroft smiled. The sparkle reached his eyes, a rare display. “Serious? I assure you, I am. Completely.”

Sherlock extracted a polyester orange football shirt using his thumb and forefinger. He held it at some distance. “These are not the garments of a serious man. You're not really expecting me to wear it.” 

“Yes, Sherlock. As part of your new role as Mr Froggit, member of our valued European Union trade mission. You represent the cream of the British Bootlace Foundation. Also, I understand Mr Frogitt is a keen supporter of – uh – footie.”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft. He shoved the suitcase onto the floor of the car where it fell, disgorging its bright contents. “Okay. Fun over. Where's the real one?”

Mycroft twiddled his thumbs. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Okay.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “So it's going to be like that? Let's see.” 

He sat back, face blank except for small eye movements as he scanned his brother. After a few seconds he leaned forward and sniffed Mycroft as well, from the dark pinstripe crotch of his suit up to his hairline. Mycroft turned in disgust, which only gave Sherlock the opportunity to taste the air inside his left ear.

“Ingenious,” pronounced Sherlock. “But it has to stop. I don't want you fucking John.”

“Sherlock. Please – why always so crude?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry. My mistake.” Sherlock steepled his fingers. “You'd like it better if John fucked you. Isn't that your preference? How are you doing it, out of a matter of interest?”

Mycroft schooled his face from distaste to faux-surprise. “You mean you can't work it out from just from one horribly invasive sniff?”

Sherlock's eyes shone cold. 

Mycroft beamed, pleased. “Oh. I see. That means you can't.”

“Well, obviously I can't, entirely, since I'm asking. I can work some of it out, but not enough. And I don't make guesses. Why should I, when you're here to tell me? And obviously dying to show off.”

Mycroft smiled, this time wide and fake enough to show his shining back teeth. “Showing off? Please.”

“Well, since I'm bored. And since I do,” said Sherlock. “Let's take that as an invitation, shall we?” He flared his nostrils. “For a start – your suit bears traces of grape seed oil. Something – or someone – has rubbed up against you, and recently. The oil loses its smell quickly on absorption. Hence recent contact. I estimate fourteen minutes. Grape seed oil is a by-product of the wine industry, but with many uses. A cosmetics base. For shaving. A lubricant. There's more, but I'll move on.”

Mycroft assented.

“John entered that building an hour and seven minutes ago. Presumably he's still there. You've been meeting him several times a week at that house. You arrange to have him driven straight there every time. After he emerges, he is noticeably more relaxed. He smiles privately. His gait is changed. He swings his arms as he walks. This is where I haven't narrowed down the options yet.”

“Which are?” 

“Firstly – that you have engaged a prostitute for John. She performs for him at that house. Hence his changed gait. His relaxation, obtained through release. John does seem to be distressingly ruled by sex - as are you. Although your wasteful habits concern me far less than his do.”

“Oh. How kind.”

“An even more likely option is that you have engaged a professional, but requested 'the girlfriend experience' for him. John can be rather slow sometimes. It should be rather easy for him to fall for even mediocre acting.”

“Really? If you say so. Although this ties in with grape seed oil, exactly how?”

“Lubricant. A sexual aid. Although strange that John would forgo condoms. Grape seed oil is not compatible with latex. Presumably you have ordered the woman to acclimatise John to demanding sex other than his usual vaginal penetration. Though how you expect that to be enough to turn him gay for you is frankly beyond me.”

“Yes, it is, isn't it?” Mycroft looked gleeful.

“Obviously, the traces on your suit are the result of you embracing John, after his latest encounter with the prostitute. As unpleasantly unhygienic as that image is.”

Mycroft smiled sweetly.

“Also, such an embrace is out of character for John - at least with you. That leads to the possibility that you might be drugging him.”

“I might,” Mycroft agreed.

“I believe,” considered Sherlock, “ the US Military spent some time working on a so-called 'gay bomb'. The idea was to make the enemy throw down their guns mid-battle and turn instead to homosexual copulation with their fellow man.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Never worked. Neither in the seventies nor in the nineties. Anyway, isn't drugging John more your area?”

“Only once,” insisted Sherlock. “It was for a case. Under laboratory conditions. I didn't do it for non-essential sex.”

“That makes all the difference.”

“Yes, it does. Right, more. Your shampoo is new. Rather gender neutral. Unusual for you. Ditto soap – no, you prefer body wash. Also, you are wearing Hammam from Penhaligon's. Again a departure. Designed for men in 1872. But based on roses, deeply sickly. An apt choice for you, if I may say so.”

Mycroft nodded. “I live for your approval.”

“Obviously, you're insisting the prostitute wears these scents and matching them yourself. John associates sexual release with the shared fragrance, which is all the more powerful because smell response is largely subliminal. Once his arousal is learned, John will have little control over himself – not that he ever had much in that respect. He certainly doesn't find you sexually attractive. He doesn't even like you much right now. But his body reacts and he can't help it. Give it enough time, and a little persistence, and you'll finally get your fuck.”

For the first time, Mycroft looked peevish. 

“There are other, less likely options,” continued Sherlock. “John meets a barber in that house and receives professional shaving. Or he has regular massages. John has never shown interest in either before. Lastly, and least likely, the grape seed oil is residue from cosmetics - John is a secret cross-dresser and that house is some kind of meeting place. If you are yourself involved, I'm not sure I could survive the mental -”

“Enough.” Mycroft swung the car door open. He got out. “All right. You can have what you want. Wait there.”

Sherlock sat smugly while Mycroft popped open the boot of the car.

When Mycroft returned, he threw in a suitcase. It was silver and identical to that which Sherlock had rejected before. It landed on one of Sherlock's feet and he complained.

“Really, Mycroft. You hardly even tried with the first one. No formal clothing in it at all. How was I supposed to represent the interests of the Bootlaces of Britain in a football kit? So obviously a decoy.” He undid the internal hanger for the suits and shirts and thumbed them like leaves in a book. “Yes. These are passable – wait. Where's the passport?”

“I gave you it. Wayne Froggit. A genuinely well worked out cover. You will be joining our EU trade mission.”

“Unacceptable.”

“Still, there it is. My driver will take you to the airport whenever you're ready.”

Sherlock kicked the suitcase. “No. I won't. Germany is going to be even more boring than this. I can tell.”

“You came to me, Sherlock, remember? You asked me to arrange this.”

“My memory isn't faulty.”

“So come home again safely, and we'll work it out where you go from there.”

Sherlock grudgingly closed the silver suitcase. 

“You'll be back soon, “soothed Mycroft. “And Europe will be fun. There's bound to be some dangerous men in Moriarty's old networks. They might even be intelligent. Moriarty will have set traps. Ridiculously, stupidly complicated ones.”

“I suppose so,” agreed Sherlock, grudgingly. “In the meantime, anyway, I order you to stop this nonsense with John.” 

Mycroft's eyes danced. “You're ordering me to stop watching him?” 

“Don't be obtuse. Of course not.”

“Well, then.” Mycroft spread his hands. “You don't own him.”

“I never said I did.” Sherlock turned towards the dark house. He stared at it through the shaded car window. “Still, after you're finished with him, I can make him hate you.”

Mycroft sighed. “Not much of a threat there.” 

“No,” admitted Sherlock. He twitched his shoulders, then rolled them in discomfort. “ I don't like this any more. I want my flat back. My books. My equipment. Everything's wrong. It's all in the wrong place. How do people live like this? Like animals?” 

“I'm sorry, Sherlock. Really, I am.”

“I didn't know it was going to be like this. Really, I'm going to crawl out of my skin.”

“But you're doing so - ” Mycroft reconsidered. He spoke carefully. “You know, John would be proud of - ”

“Really, Mycroft. Do shut up.”

Instead of replying, Mycroft hesitated, then pulled out his phone. He made a brief call, only two words and within seconds someone tapped the car window. Mycroft buzzed the window down and a black case was handed in.

Sherlock bounced on his seat with an expression of delight.

Mycroft tried vainly to hold the object from him. “This is only on condition that you don't smuggle anything onto the plane that might land you in - oh, please don't open it now. Yes. The one at Baker Street is now a replica. Oh really, don't play. I'll have the thing forcibly removed from you right now if you start playing.”

Sherlock's eyes widened as he snuggled his violin to his chin. “Did you bring my skull as well?”

“You can't take parts of dead people on planes, Sherlock. Remember, there are laws? No cadavers. Only strictly legal chemicals. That's the condition for the violin. Sherlock, are you listening?”

“Yes, yes. I'm not playing. Just tuning it up.”

Mycroft got out of the car anyway and slammed the door with feeling. The muffled sound of violin attack leaked from within. 

There - his little brother would be happy for at least a few minutes. With that dealt with, Mycroft ran his fingers along the chain of his pocket watch and pulled out its golden weight to check the time. 

John's shower must be well over. There were orders in place to retain him if he tried to leave the house independently. But that was a situation best avoided. 

Hunger inside Mycroft was rearing its insistent head once more.

It was time for dinner.

*


End file.
